2 2 THE NIGHT MY MOTHER SLEP

The night, my mum slept and didn't wake up, my dad and my younger sister had travelled to the cold faraway city of London.

I was alone with her that night, and I remember all she told me in her weak voice as she lay on her large queen size bed.

My mum cried and screamed a lot, not just that night, but on a lot of the other days when she suffered her crisis. It lasted a couple of hours sometimes and other times a couple of days. Once, it lasted for months. Sometimes during the crisis, she would be rushed to the hospital and admitted, other times she stayed back at home and cried out in pain as my dad looked after her and my sister and I watched in concern.

That night my mum didn't speak to me about the concept of sleeping and not waking up anymore.The same thing she had called dying or death. I didn't ask any more questions either because I didn't know she would sleep and not wake up until she slept and didn't wake up. Yet when I think back about that night, I realise that there was a way she looked down at me as she stroked my dark curly hair that showed that she actually knew that she would sleep and not wake up. It was an I–will–miss–you–so–much look. That kind of look you give someone you love who is leaving for a long time and you don't know when you will see them again; or the kind of look that you give the last piece of a bar of delicious chocolate, which you have been eating, because you know that once you eat it, there will be no more of the chocolate left for you to eat again.

There was a deep sadness in my mum's eyes when she stared at me with that look. It was a long look and tears were rolling down her cheeks before she said to me in her weak voice, "Promise me you will look after your sister and your father."

I had responded because I thought if I said I would do as she requested; my mum would get better and go back to her normal happy, always smiling and singing self.

"I will, Mum."

"Kompa will take care of you," she continued.

Kompa's head shot up, and he stared at us from the foot of the bed.

"I will take care of him," I countered in my big brother voice.

She laughed and then winced audibly before she coughed and coughed and coughed while covering her mouth with her right hand and stroking my hair with her left.

Kompa looked at her in concern.

When she stopped coughing, she said, "You both will take care of each other."

Kompa barked once. It was his way of saying yes to people like my mum who couldn't hear him speak, but to me, he said, "It is high time you agreed that it is me who takes care of you and not you of me. But since mum is ill, let's agree with what she says so she can get well, we will take care of each other."

"You wish," I said to Kompa. Then I turned to my mum and continued, "Won't you take care of all of us like you always have?"

She looked down at me as she stroked my hair and responded.

"I will."

"Thank you."

I was eight years old small; my sister was five years old tiny; my mum was thirty years old frail, my dad was thirty-three years old strong and the Border Collie, Kompa, who my mother had given me for my sixth birthday, was a year and three months old feisty.

The bed in which my mother and I lay had big comfy pillows in white pillowcases that matched the white bed sheet and duvet. She cradled me in her thin arms and I felt her shiver. When I looked up at her, her tired eyes, which had dark circles around them, appeared to be sinking into her head. Her eyes were open very wide, and I stared at them for a while until they finally closed.

Unlike other times when she would simply smile when I asked her to tell me why she fell ill so often, my mum had spoken more about the nature of her illness to me that night.

It was an illness that she had been born with and from which she was always falling sick.

Her illness was called sickle cell anaemia.

It happens to people who have something wrong with the red blood cells in their body.

She had said, with a tinge of sadness, as though thinking about her illness was a heavy burden, "A cell is the smallest part of our bodies."

"How small?" I asked.

"So small that it can only be seen under a microscope."

"What does it look like?"

"It is like a workshop."

"A workshop?"

"Yes, complete with benches and machines. But all of that is not really benches and machines like you have seen, but things that look like those even though they are all parts of the cell."

"Hmmm," It was the only sound I made as I tried to understand what she meant.

She continued, "Can you imagine it?"

"No."

She laughed. It was short, and it winded her. She stopped for a while to gather her breath, and then she continued.

"Think of it as the kitchen in this house. And we are getting ready for a party, so I have all my friends come over to help me cook. All of us doing one thing or the other to prepare the meal. Some cutting vegetables, some washing rice, some preparing meat, others kneading the dough, everyone working to get food ready for the party.That is how the inside of a cell is. You see it now?"

"Yes." I could see it clearly.

"Great. All that happens in a cell is very specialised. So, it does one thing and one thing only."

"All cells in our body do only one thing?"

"No, not all cells. Each cell does one thing.All the cells that do the same thing exist together in groups. That is why there are different groups of cells that do different kinds of things. And because they all do different things; they all work collectively like in teams and are able to make our bodies function."

"Oh, I get it now," I was piqued.

I imagined the cells like a football team: a goalkeeper, defenders, midfielders and strikers. I could even see substitutes on the bench and trainers and a coach.

My mum continued speaking, "Each group of cells does its job so that other groups of cells can do their jobs. When one group has a problem doing its job, other groups begin to fail in doing their jobs too. The more they fail, the more our bodies begin to fall sick, and if we cannot stop the cells from failing to do their jobs, our bodies will fall sick so often that one day, we will close our eyes in the forever sleep."

"Forever sleep?" I asked.

"Yes, like death."

"We die if our cells stop doing their jobs?"

"Yes, we do. Especially our white blood cells."

"White like white in colour?"

"Yes. They are white like a watery milky colour."

"What do they do?"

"They fight any disease in our body. They protect us."

"Like soldiers?"

"Perfect description."

"Wow!" I said as I imagined soldiers in white running all around my body fighting colds, and fevers, and running nose, and headaches.

Then I looked up at my mum and asked, "Do they have guns?"

"Not the kind of guns you see on TV or your toy guns, but there are special weapons they have which they fight with, and once they have it, they are called a different name."

"Different from white blood cells?"

"Yes, just in name only, but they are still white blood cells."

"What is the name?"

"It is too advanced for you, love, when you grow older you will learn all about it in school."

"I want to know now, Mum. What are they called?"

She shook her head in an exhausted way.

"Please, Mum," I said with my puppy face.

She laughed.

"Okay, they are called Lymphocytes."

"Lymphocytes," I repeated in wonder.

"Yes."

"Can you spell it?"

"L – Y – M – P – H – O – C – Y – T – E – S." She spelt it, and I repeated it along with her. It was one of the most difficult words I had heard, although it was not as difficult as the words: encyclopaedia, penicillin, regurgitate, photosynthesis, parliamentary, democratic or metamorphosis. But unlike the others, it created pictures for me. Fun pictures that moved as though across a television screen.

"Lymphocytes are so cool. Are there like black blood cells too?"

She laughed even louder. Then she coughed a bit and fell silent, trying to catch her breath. Kompa wagged his tail twice, made a whining sound and fell silent too. Then my mum began to speak again.

"There are no black blood cells, just red blood cells."

"Red blood cells?"

"Yes, they are called red because they are actually red in colour."

"Why are they red?"

"They are red because they have something that helps them carry oxygen."

"What is it called?"

"Too many questions. You don't need to know all of these details now."

"But I want to, please. Remember you said I need to know at least one new word per day."

"Yes, but not these words. These are scientific words."

"I like science."

"Do you ever give up, young man?"

"No," I said with pride.

"Okay. It is called haemoglobin."

"Haemoglobin." I repeated it again with added wonder, and then I continued, "Can you spell it?"

"Not this time. You try to spell it."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

I hesitated for a moment. She caressed my hair as she looked down at me from the slightly raised pillow where her head lay.

"H-A- I- R- M- O- R…" I began to spell it and trailed off when she began to giggle.

"I told you I couldn't spell it," I giggled too.

"Bless you, love. At least you tried. Be proud of yourself."

"Spell it for me, Mum," I continued impatiently.

"You say thank you first." It was stern.

"Thank you," I lowered my voice.

"Good. Okay it is spelt like this: H-A-E-M-O-G-L-O-B-I-N." She spelt it out and I spelt it alongside her.

I repeated the word again and again. It wasn't as intriguing as Lymphocytes and didn't create any pictures in my mind, but I still liked the sound of it. I quickly shelved it in my word board. That shelf in my mind where I kept all the new words I learnt. Then I continued asking questions.

"So if white blood cells are soldiers, what are red blood cells?"

My mum lifted herself a little higher on the bed so that some of her upper back lay on the pillow, then she began to answer.

"Red…"

Then she stopped with a gasp.

And she began to pant as she squeezed her face and balled her hand, which was on my head, into a fist before she stretched out her body and raised her torso slightly from the bed. I felt it tremble beside me as a groan escaped from her lips.

I sat up and looked at her.

Kompa also sat up on his haunches and stared at her, quietly.

She began vibrating on the bed, as her face squeezed even more and her hands gripped the duvet that covered the lower part of her body.

It went on for a short while and she swayed from left to right as the pain coursed through her body.

I didn't know what to say, but I felt so sad that she was suffering.

Kompa placed one paw on her foot and kept staring at her, and it was as though that action did the trick.

My mum collapsed on the bed and began gasping. Her forehead was covered with sweat, and she let out the words, "Sweet Lord!"

She continued breathing with loud exhalations of air until she was calm and smiling. Then she patted her abdomen and spoke.

"Come lie down. Mummy is just going through a rough patch."

I lay down in the same position I was before.

Kompa did the same.

My mum continued, "So you were asking me about red blood cells?"

"Yes, Mum. But you don't have to tell me if you are still in pain."

"It's okay, the pain is gone."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, love. Thank you for asking though."

I smiled.

She caressed my hair and began speaking with a weaker voice.

"Red blood cells are the cells that help carry oxygen around the body. They help us breathe. They are round in shape and flexible, and this allows them to move easily around our body through our blood vessels."

"Are the blood vessels like tunnels through which our blood flows?"

"Yes," she answered, smiling.

"Like covered drains or gutters?"

"Exactly. For people like me who have sickle cell anaemia, the red blood cells are not flexible but rigid, and they are shaped like sickles or the crescent moons that hang high in the sky. Because of this, they get stuck in the small blood vessels in our body, which slows down or blocks the blood flow, which in turn reduces the amount of oxygen our body gets."

"How are my red blood cells?"

"They are perfectly round, and they flow freely through your blood vessels."

"And yours are curved like sickles or a comma and get hooked, so they block your blood vessels." I was repeating it to myself to make sure I fully understood it.

"Yes. But blocking the blood vessels and reducing the oxygen is not the only problem, there is also the incredible pain that comes with it.You have seen me feel the pain before, right?"

I nodded.

My mum continued, "It is a horrible kind of pain that spreads all over your body, particularly your joints, your spleen and even your entire bones and makes you scream out in anguish. That is what I mean when I say I am in crisis. You remember me talking about a crisis?"

"Yes, I remember that," I said, then I continued, eager to show that I had listened to the little bits of information she had given me over time. "A crisis is the period in which the sickle cell anaemia flares up, the pain rises, and you scream."

She laughed. It was weak, but her eyes twinkled through the mistiness that had gathered in them. I could feel the pride in them. And the deep love. She stroked my head and said, "Sorry for screaming."

"Don't be sorry, Mum. I wish I could do something to stop your pain."

"Let's both pray that the pain goes away?"

I nodded eagerly.

And my mum began to pray.

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Then she stopped and began to pant. Her breathing was fast, and her hands stopped stroking my hair. Her body shook slowly at first and then even more vigorously.

I sat up and looked down at her.

Her eyes were open wide and her mouth let out a scream. It was low at first and began to rise.

I felt fear creep on me.

"Mum!" I called as Kompa ran up to her and began gently licking her face.

Each stroke of his tongue was so gentle that even I who watched felt calmness spread over me.

My mum stopped screaming and slowly started calming down as Kompa kept licking her face and making a whining sound.

"It's all right. You will be fine. The pain will soon go away, and you will be at peace," I heard Kompa say.

I wanted to tell my mum what Kompa's whine meant, but as I saw her relax, I figured she already knew, so I kept silent and began to stroke her sweaty arm.

Then her eyes closed for a moment and then opened again. She looked at Kompa who had stopped licking her face.

"Thank you, Kompa. You are the best," she smiled.

Kompa wagged his tail, licked his lips, walked over to her feet and curled up beside them.

My mum turned back to me, she was still smiling as she said, "Sorry for that again."

"It's okay, Mum. Do you feel better?"

"Yes, I do, now come lie by me, love. We haven't finished praying."

I lay down in my former position, and she let out a long breath before she continued.

And after she had finished praying, she began to sing. It was one of her gospel songs; one of the Psalms in the Bible. Psalm 23. She made it her own. It was a mixture of singing and praying. I knew it by heart because she sang it always.

Those were the last words I remembered my mum said as she prayed and sang that night in a warm joyous voice that was sometimes choked with happy tears.

When I remember that night, I wished had I listened more, prayed more and sang along with her, but as it usually happened, I always fell asleep when my mum prayed. I don't know if it was because her prayers were usually long or because her voice was always warm and musical, like the way she read bedtime stories and sang lullabies to my sister and me.

The truth is that when you listened to her pray and sing, you would feel so much peace, joy, and love, and you would find yourself drifting off to a safe place where no problems or fears or dangers lurked.

That night, the place I drifted to in my sleep was a lushly green valley with singing birds, a humming cool breeze and a bright dazzling sun. In that place, my mum was singing joyfully and dancing happily until the dream was replaced by another even more dazzling and mesmerising dream.